Winter Time

I am in winter. Actually i am in Iceland where it is cold and wet. Tonight I went out to dinner and put on just about every item of clothing I brought with me. And I should have put on the one thing--a fleece vest--I didn't wear. Fortunately the food was fabulous and worth the walk through the pouring, freezing rain from our hotel.

This morning immediately after we arrived, Jane and I went to the Blue Lagoon spa where we "relaxed" in a flotation tank for an hour, a procedure that is supposed to make up for all the sleep we lost on the flight over from the states. The only thing missing from this experience was nice big spliff to share. After the float, I had a fabulous massage. For this I flew five and a half hours to a rocky island in the North Atlantic where the natives speak a totally incomprehensible language that sounds nothing like any other language I ever heard.

Tomorrow we head out to the country to hike and see incredible natural wonders. I plan on wearing everthing i have in my suitcase including that fleece vest. Wish me luck.

L'Shana Tova

I suddenly realized that Rosh Hashonah starts Wednesday evening. I only know this because there are New Year’s greetings in my mailbox. My ignorance of the holiday’s imminent arrival has me thinking: Is it possible to have a spiritual life, Jewish or otherwise, and not believe in God?

I used to say I was agnostic, kind of hedging my bets. But that’s dishonest. I really don’t believe in a divine being of any sort. Or at least such a belief doesn’t factor into my daily life. It certainly hasn’t provided any solace this past year. What has gotten be through?—faith in myself, friends, family, the mere fact that I am alive and still capable of happiness and engagement with the world. Does that qualify as spirituality?

We live in a sick society

The idea that even a shred of doubt exists about whether Davis committed the 1989 crime of which he was convicted—shooting to death an off-duty policeman in Savannah, Ga.—should make a society either grind to a halt or erupt. Davis’s conviction has a thick cloud of doubt hanging over it. But as the executioners in Georgia waited for the Supreme Court’s decision about whether to proceed, you felt the public conversation impatiently drumming its fingers. In the end, the court declined to block the execution, and Davis was killed at 11:08 p.m. Now the question of America’s sick passion for capital punishment will slide away like a baseball score.

Read the whole article here.

Murder Inc. aka the United States of America

Is there anything more important than trying to stop the execution--no, murder--of Troy Davis. How can we profess to live in a civilized country where this can happen. The sense of powerlessness in the face of such injustice, such cruelty and inhumanity is enraging, frustrating and overwhelming to me. Where is the outcry? What can do do?

Puppy Love

Who would have thought I would turn into a dog person. But here I am all googoo eyed and mushy over Wilbur, the cutest puppy ever. I willingly clean up his shit, laugh when he pisses all over my house and insist on cuddling with him for six hours in the car on the way home from New Hampshire.

This is definitely a new experience for me. I never had a dog as a kid. My parents never allowed it and I don’t remember ever really wanting one. Steve, of course, was terrified of all dogs so having a dog was never an option when we were together. The closest we came to having pets was living next door to the dogs in Maine and those dogs were not at all adorable.

Wilbur is off the charts when it comes to adorable.

Home with Wilbur

My husband thought he would live forever. So did I. So it was a big surprise to both of us when he died. It’s been over a year now and I’m busy living my life without him. It’s hard work but I’m managing. But, he, how is he doing up there, down there, wherever he is, without all of us around him. Is he lonely too? Does he miss the laughter, all the good times.

I like to imagine him sitting quietly up on the hill overlooking the lake. He’s dressed in a saffron colored robe and wears his favorite hat. Does he wonder when it will be time to get up, rejoin the party, make noise again. Or is he content to watch it all go by.

I’m having all these thoughts because I am in Maine again just for a day and a half on the way to a wedding in New Hampshire. I am here with Liz and Giuliano and Wilbur, the most adorable of puppies, and being with all of them makes a huge difference in my mood and my outlook. The house doesn’t seem haunted now. I can see a future here and it’s a happy one.

Gazpacho

This has been a strange summer for lots of reasons, the most obvious one, of course, that it was my first full summer in Maine without Steve. Actually, it turned out not be a full summer in Maine. Spending two and a half uninterrupted months at the house on Pleasant Lake proved too difficult this year so I boldly broke with tradition and interspersed my summer in Maine with excursions: a rafting trip in Montana, a week in Cartagena with Liz and her girlfriends, visits to LA and Jamaica and then a trip to Scandinavia at the end of the summer. It was a good strategy although now that I look back it feels like I probably spent more time in airports and airplanes then anywhere else this summer.

When I was in Maine, I mostly had a good time. I got back on the tennis court, discovered paddle boarding on the lake, sat on the deck with a glass of wine to watch the sunset--all the usual things. But now that the summer is nearing its official end, I have one major regret: I never made gazpacho. A pitcher of that fabulously chunky liquid salad spiced as I like it with smoky Spanish pimento was never to be seen in my refrigerator this year. A staple of lunchtime, a healthy pre-dinner or late afternoon snack, perhaps the best reason ever to purchase a food processor, gazpacho has not appeared on the menu at my house in Maine or my apartment in Philadelphia. Its time has passed. . .at least for this year. Maybe next summer I'll be ready for gazpacho again.

Gratitude

In the NYTimes today, I read that Meryl Streep will be honored this year by the John F. Kennedy Center. I loved her comments on learning of the recognition.

“I am deeply honored by this news and wish my mother and father were alive to hear it . . . All that education, allowance, tuition, voice lessons, summer jobs, scholarship application and loving care and discipline—all that they gave me, bore fruit in a way they never dreamed. I am so grateful.”

What a beautiful thought, a wonderful, loving response.

Meryl Streep and I are about the same age. I like to think we have something in common: We both had parents who loved and cherished us and supported our potentialities.

When I was young, I felt I lived a charmed life. Only good things, it seemed, happened to me and my family. I lived in a bubble and tragedy was outside it. When I got older and bad things started happening me to me—parents dying, my younger brother dead from cancer, widowhood—I realized more than ever how hard my parents worked to give me the gift of a happy childhood. I’m thankful for that illusion and for as long as it lasted. It’s the source of my courage, the root of my confidence. It’s what enables to still feel hopeful that I can live my life with grace and meaning. I am so grateful.

On My Way Home

My last day in Copenhagen. I'm going home tomorrow one day earlier than I originally planned. I ostensibly moved up my departure so I would have an extra day at home to get ready for Liz and Giul's arrival. But really it was nearly ten days of eating dinner by myself that was starting to get to me.

This trip has been a strange experience. I feel so lucky that I can do this--take off by myself to somewhere far away where I've never been. It's an exhilarating feeling. I revel in my confidence and freedom. But then there are times when I miss my travel companion very much. I keep thinking how much Steve would have enjoyed this trip. He'd be stopping for hotdogs on the street, knocking back beers in the outdoor cafes, soaking up the vibe. Well I haven't had a hotdog. I'm drinking wvery not beer but I am definitely soaking up the vibe.

Copenhagen

Being a tourist is hard work. First you have to decide what to bring. I always bring too much and never that one article of clothing that would be perfect for the trip. And if you are geographically challenged, in other words your map reading skills are suspect, you spend a lot of time going in circles figuring out how to get from here to there and then back again. I'm very proud of myself on this trip. I've managed to wander around central Stockholm and now Copenhagen without getting hopelessly lost despite the fact that both cities' centers are not laid out on a grid like Philadelphia. Also, both cities have incredibly long street names which make map reading all the more difficult.

Today I probably spent an entire morning walking around a radius of maybe ten blocks. I kept turning down side streets, stepping into tiny shops, walking into galleries, admiring the architecture and then finding myself in some big public square or historic setting. I really like Copenhagen but I think, like Stockholm, I am seeing it at its best. The sun is shining, the outdoor cafes are full (although they thoughtfully provide blankets on the back of chairs) and the bike lanes are crowded. It may still be summer and sultry back home but here it feels like fall or early spring. Nobody is walking or biking in flip flops and shorts. Its rare to see see sandals at all. Jackets are necessary and boots and sneakers are the preferred foot gear. I can't imagine it ever gets really hot and steamy here.

It's too bad I never learned to ride a bike because that is definitely the way to go here. Bike lanes are ubiquitous and they move fast. I even witnessed a major smash up today when two bikers collided and both went down pretty dramatically. Fortunately they both got up and seemed OK. There was no yelling or screaming. They just picked up their bikes and pedaled off. I think I will stick to the sidewalk.